I like to write junk...

“COME ON DOWN”

“In this game, there is no humorous ‘zonk’ booby prize.”

Two hosts standing beside illuminated doors labeled 1 and 2 on The Big Choice game show stage — The Big Choice

“Let’s Make a Deal” is a popular American television game show in which contestants, chosen from an enthusiastic audience dressed in costumes, make deals with the host to win cash and prizes.

The gameplay usually involves participants being offered a choice between a known prize or an unknown item hidden behind doors, curtains, or inside boxes—potentially winning big or ending up with a ‘zonk’ — a humorous booby prize.

The show is known for its suspenseful negotiations, playful atmosphere, and interactive format, making it a long-standing favorite among viewers. I was one of those viewers at an early age, always wanting to participate myself.

My brother and I, along with our parents, would choose a door just to make the show more entertaining. More often than not, Mom was the best picker along with Jim. Dad and I generally went with the door the participant picked because the audience played a big role in their selection by yelling.

Life, in a way, is like “Let’s Make a Deal,” except ultimately, we have two doors to choose from instead of three, and we know what’s behind door #1. Why some people still choose door #2 is a mystery to me. I’ll call this game show “The Big Choice.” In this game, there is no humorous ‘zonk’ booby prize.

Without sugarcoating the truth, door #2 is full of false religions that will ultimately lead followers to the gates of hell. Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, Satanism, Judaism, Modalism, Humanism, and occult belief may promise fulfillment but ultimately deceive.

As Matthew 7:15 warns, “Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves.” This caution reminds us to be discerning about spiritual teachings and the paths we choose in life. Some religions sound good, yet in reality, they are like lying politicians, making promises that’ll never be fulfilled.

Christianity distinguishes itself by emphasizing the concept of grace—that salvation is a free gift from God, not something earned through works. This message of unconditional love and forgiveness is central, offering believers assurance and hope regardless of their circumstances.

Additionally, Christianity encourages a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, which many find comforting and transformative, providing guidance through life’s choices and challenges.

I chose door #1 and received the blessings within by accepting Jesus Christ as my savior. The feeling of complete joy in doing so was akin to thousands of pounds of burden being lifted from my shoulders. It’s also great to know I’ll be spending eternity in Heaven. Never have I read about anyone following one of the false religions having experienced the same.

In the game show “The Price is Right,” host Bob Barker called out some lucky participant’s name and then shouted for all to hear, “Come on down!” In the real-life version of “The Big Choice,” guest host Satan is undoubtedly echoing the same message to those people who have chosen door #2.

Be careful what door you choose because your eternity is dependent upon it!

Demon with wings and horns at fiery stone door labeled 'DOOR 2', angels and golden castle in clouds behind. — “Come on down!”

WHEN IT RAINS…

“The doctor and her staff were amazing and most professional in caring for cardiac patients like me.”

Rainy desert scene with large saguaro cacti, wet dirt path, and dark storm clouds over distant mountains — When it rains…

The saying “When it rains, it pours” means that when one bad thing happens, it is often followed by other unfortunate events, making the situation feel overwhelming.

It suggests that problems or difficulties tend to come all at once, rather than being spread out over time. While originally related to weather, it is commonly used to describe periods of challenging circumstances in life. I recently had one of those times.

My wife was scheduled for a heart procedure, and I’d been stressing more than her. The morning that she was to go to Havasu Regional Medical Center, I went into atrial fibrillation, or AFIB as it’s commonly called. That entailed a quick trip to the ER with Joleen taking me. I had her drop me off and go back home as she needed the rest.

Preceding all of this, our son’s wife was rushed to a hospital in Colorado Springs, where she was diagnosed with appendicitis. That meant Kay’s appendix was close to bursting, which is a dangerous situation.

We’d been monitoring that just one day before, with it turning out successful, although the same couldn’t be said for that failing organ. It was removed and sent to a secret location known only to a few sanitation workers.

I was admitted to the emergency room early on Monday morning. They immediately started intravenous drips in both arms with blood thinner and some type of wonder juice to make my heart start beating regularly. Hey, I can’t remember the medical names.

Tito in the ER was a pleasure to deal with, and we even talked about my favorite subject for a couple of minutes, cars. A muscular, handsome guy: it turns out, he drives one of the newer, sleek-looking Corvettes. I wanted to tell him that I thought my Hellcat was faster but refrained.

After being stabilized, they rolled my bed upstairs to the second floor, where room 210 became my new home. I forgot some of the names because I was in and out of sleep, yet I recall Chris, Dre, Jorge, Jamie, Jose, Alex, Camille, and most of all, Dr. Bate.

The doctor and her staff were amazing and most professional in caring for cardiac patients like me. By what I believe was divine intervention, Joleen bumped into Dr. Bate in the elevator, and they exchanged pleasantries, including news that I had been unexpectedly admitted before her.

When the good doctor walked into my room, she already knew most of the story here. One thing we both agreed on was that praying came foremost over anything else. I told her I’d been doing so nonstop. The hospital chaplain even stopped by and said a prayer for me.

I learned something new since my last stay: don’t leave bed without having someone turn off the alarm system. I had the whole crew come rushing down when I did, evidently believing I’d escaped. I promised them, especially Camille the nurse, never to do that again.

After Joleen’s successful procedure, the post-surgical department nurse, Linda, along with our friend Kathy Crowe, wheeled her up to see me. That was an emotional time because I’d still been worrying, even though I didn’t need to be in my fragile situation.

Seeing her brought instant relief, along with tears, in knowing my wife was fine. Jerry and Kathy Crowe took over watching Joleen for the first 24 hours, as I was supposed to be the caretaker.

One of the main things I learned from this experience is that it’s important to have supportive friends and family in times of need. We just never know when the rain will start pouring. Diane at AllPaps in Havasu was another blessing.

She delivered a CPAP machine for me to use after closing hours. That allowed for the sleep I needed without worry, as I’ve only been using one of these machines for 10 years. To me, a shallow breather, they’re necessary, much like a blanket is to Linus.

I was impressed with the Cardiac Care unit at HRMC and wouldn’t hesitate to go there again. Dr. Atassi even stopped by to check on my progress, and that meant a lot to me as I know he’s a busy man, being the head doctor with his cardiac group.

The number one question I’ve been asked since my release is, “How was the food?” I’ll have to give it flying colors for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The egg scramble was excellent, as was the rigatoni and meat sauce, and the BBQ chicken with vegetables was superb.

I’ve dined at several hospitals in different states, with HRMC at the top of them for preparation and taste. I believe Chef Guy Fieri would totally agree with me!

WALKAHOLIC

“When I’m hiking the trails around town and someone my same age goes whizzing by, I’m not impressed.”

Senior couple walking down a grocery store aisle for household goods and cleaning

The average person walks between 3,000 and 4,000 steps per day, which is roughly 1.5 to 2 miles daily. Over the course of a year, this adds up to approximately 550 to 730 miles walked by an individual. Actual mileage may vary based on lifestyle, occupation, and physical activity habits.

My total mileage walked in 72 years, based on this formula, would be 52,560 miles, but I believe I’m way above average, so the number should be more than double that. Subtracting the first five years of my life, I’d say I’ve easily walked over 100,000 miles in total, which may seem high, yet Toyota cars and trucks, when properly maintained, can reach well over 300,000 miles.

I’ve taken care of things by not running, which impacts knees, hips, thighs, ankles, and feet. Studies have shown that runners are much more likely to require hip and knee replacements in later life due to the repetitive stress these activities place on the joints.

Over time, the increased wear and tear can lead to joint degeneration, making surgical intervention more common among frequent runners. Several of my friends who were former runners have undergone this.

While running is often celebrated for its cardiovascular benefits, walking offers many of the same health advantages with less impact on the joints. Regular walking can improve heart health, help maintain a healthy weight, boost mood, and reduce the risk of chronic diseases such as diabetes and hypertension.

For individuals looking to stay active without the increased risk of joint injury, walking provides an effective and sustainable alternative to running. It’s not as impressive to tell someone you walk for exercise as it is to run, yet when you reach 70, it doesn’t really matter what people think.

We keep an exercise bike and a treadmill in the house, and I use both sparingly, although in Alaska during winter, they both received a good workout. My old Schwinn Airyne had over 10,000 miles when it was retired. This new one is still under 1,000.

Rotary Park provides the best place to walk in Lake Havasu City during the summer months, though only in the morning hours before it gets too hot. Walmart is our next go-to place because it’s huge and air-conditioned. Joleen and I jokingly call it Walkmart. We’ve seen others walking there for exercise.

Three or four complete circuits around the store is sufficient, making for a good country mile. That’s a statement you don’t hear much anymore. A “country mile” is an informal phrase used to describe a distance that feels much longer than a standard mile, especially when traveling through rural or undeveloped areas.

The term often refers to the perception that distances in the countryside, where landmarks and reference points are fewer, seem to stretch farther than the same measured distance in a city or town. So, when someone says something is a “country mile” away, they usually mean it’s a lot farther than you might expect.

As long as I’m able to simply walk at a normal pace, I’m happy. So many seniors lose that ability and suffer immensely, and in some cases, never leave the house. When I’m hiking the trails around town and someone my same age goes whizzing by, I’m not impressed.

Given time, they’ll eventually be on the sidelines from too much strenuous activity, and I’ll pass them. I say that from a mechanic’s perspective after seeing old vehicles pushed to the limit and then breaking down.

Call me a “walkaholic” if you like. The joy I get from still being able to walk far outweighs most physical attributes at this point in my life. I hope I can continue walking until the buzzards start circling and squawking!

Elderly woman crossing Walmart 5K finish line indoors with cheering crowd

HIGH MAINTENANCE II

“To her, Mick was just another free meal, movie, and gift provider.”

Woman in green dress sitting at a table holding a glass of champagne in an elegant lounge — Let her go

Many years ago, a single friend and coworker was on the dating scene and encountered his “dream girl.” I only met her once but sensed right away she was ‘high maintenance.’

Other workers in the shop felt the same and advised him to let her go after hearing breakroom stories about what the woman expected in terms of meals and entertainment.

A female described as ‘high maintenance’ is often perceived as someone who pays close attention to her appearance and enjoys indulging in luxuries. She might prioritize fashion and beauty routines and expect a certain level of care or effort in her relationships. This gal fit that bill to perfection.

Living paycheck to paycheck, Mick (not his real name) eventually couldn’t afford to satisfy her extravagant tastes and had to let her go, though it didn’t hurt the woman’s feelings. She already had two other guys on the hook. To her, Mick was just another free meal, movie, and gift provider.

“Let her go” can also be used in a different sense, with “let him go” being the alternative. I’m sure many women have similar tales about men they’ve dated, their dates not carrying the title of high maintenance, but needing maintenance instead. I’m talking about unkept appearance, such as unbrushed teeth, body odor, dirty shoes, along with personal problems.

Thankfully, my wife never decided to let me go, but just recently she advised me, along with my doctor, to “ladder go.” I’m talking about climbing ladders, after falling off one and striking my head on a block wall before hitting the concrete floor.

Seeing stars for a few seconds, it took a couple of months before the pain went away. I’m still feeling some tightness in my neck and shoulders, with Tylenol working its magic. A friend fared much worse after she took a plunge from a stepladder in a garage. Barb suffered a broken wrist and bruises and is still recovering.

Medical reports show that climbing ladders poses significant risks for senior citizens due to age-related changes in balance, strength, and vision. Falls from ladders can result in serious injuries such as fractures, head trauma, or even long-term disabilities, including death.

Seniors are particularly vulnerable because their bones may be more fragile, and recovery from injuries often takes longer. Even a minor misstep can lead to a severe accident. It’s important for older adults to avoid unnecessary ladder use and seek help with tasks that require climbing.

Safety measures, such as using sturdy ladders, ensuring proper footwear, and having another person nearby, can reduce the risk but don’t eliminate it entirely. Taking precautions and recognizing personal limitations are essential to prevent dangerous falls.

Unfortunately, I still must climb ladders because our home needs light bulbs changed on occasion, smoke detectors replaced, dust bunnies removed, and, just recently, I completely repainted the bathroom.

Our house, just like Mick’s old girlfriend, is high maintenance. Perhaps it’s time to let her go and look for a condo!

Elderly man falling backward off a ladder in a workshop with tools scattered — Ladder go

BOSS

“The last time someone called me ‘Boss’ was when a young fellow at the McDonald’s drive-thru did so last week.”

Inmate in green prison uniform walking with handcuffs and leg shackles escorted by officer in prison corridor — Dead man walking

On rare occasions, perhaps once a year, someone refers to me as “Boss,” and it’s generally a younger person. I don’t mind the name, but it always makes me think of a movie I watched starring actors Tom Hanks, Michael Clarke Duncan, and Doug Hutchison. This film was called “The Green Mile.“

In that movie, John Coffey (Michael Clarke Duncan), a black prisoner wrongly imprisoned for the murder of two children, is befriended by prison guard and supervisor, Paul Edgcomb (Tom Hanks). Prisoner John Coffey refers to Edgcomb as “Boss” in a respectful manner, much like workers address their employers.

John Coffey has inherited supernatural and healing powers, with the movie script focusing on John’s ability to know and do things no human is capable of. At the time of his death by electrocution, those powers are passed on to Tom Edgcomb and a small mouse named “Mr. Bojangles.”

“Dead Man Walking” is sadistically sung out by prison guard Percy Witmore (Doug Hutchison) each time a prisoner on ‘death row’ comes walking down the hall. To the disgust of his fellow guards, Percy does this with a sinister smile on his face. John Coffey was one of those death row prisoners mocked.

The phrase ‘dead man walking’ is an idiomatic expression that originally referred to a person on death row who is walking toward their execution. Over time, it has come to describe someone in a hopeless or doomed situation. There is an answer for such, and his name is Jesus Christ.

The last time someone called me “Boss” was when a young fellow at the McDonald’s drive-thru did so last week. Handing me my bag of food, he politely said, “Have a good day,” before sliding the glass window shut.

Without opening the bag, I sensed that something was wrong. The order was supposed to consist of two orders of Chicken McNuggets along with some barbecue and ranch dipping sauces. Opening the sack, Joleen told me we only had barbecue, which was okay with me but not with her. I then had to tap on the glass and ask the guy for ranch.

Thinking back to being called “Boss,” and my premonition that something was wrong with the order, John Coffey’s powers entered my mind. “The Green Mile” had left a lasting impression on me and perhaps something even more extraordinary: the ability to see inside a paper sack without opening it, much like Superman.

Silently chuckling at my thoughts, my wife carefully reviewed the receipt, as she always does. Coming to the part where the dipping sauce was printed out, Joleen informed me, “You didn’t order ranch. It only says barbecue.“

I was sure I’d mentioned ranch when talking to the employee via intercom, but Joleen insisted I hadn’t. Mistakes happen quite often with our orders, usually because I can’t clearly hear the order taker’s questions. I suppose that’s a big problem for drive-thru clerks, especially when they must deal with the often hard-of-hearing senior citizen crowd.

I now must wonder if that fellow who last called me “Boss” also didn’t sarcastically mutter under his breath, “Deaf Man Driving.” Perhaps behind that sliding glass window, employees are constantly singing it!

Elderly man in car ordering at McDonald's drive-thru speaker — Deaf man driving.

FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH

“That might’ve started an argument, as this gruff guy appeared to have a short fuse.”

The phrase “for what it’s worth” is an expression people use when offering an opinion, suggestion, or piece of information, often to indicate that the speaker is not sure how valuable or significant their contribution will be.

It’s a way of being modest or cautious about the importance or impact of what’s being shared. For example, someone might say, “For what it’s worth, I think you did a great job,” meaning they hope their opinion is helpful, even if it may not change the situation.

On the other hand, “for what it’s worth” can be used in an offensive manner without the speaker realizing it. The other day, at a car show, a fellow walked up to me and said, “For what it’s worth, I’d spray some type of clear over your old truck to keep it from further rusting.”

After he finished his remark, I wanted to say, but politely didn’t, “For what it’s worth, I’m not open to suggestions!” That might’ve started an argument, as this gruff guy appeared to have a short fuse.

He rambled on, telling me that clearcoat was the only way to fly if he owned the vehicle. I was very cordial, having been told this countless times over the past 8 years. I ended the conversation by saying that the next person to own the truck could pay for such, but not me.

I love rust, believing it’s the color of choice amongst the rat rod crowd. Young people like it as well. Several catchy slogans go along with the name, such as “In rust we trust!” Rust in peace!” “Rust my soul!” and “Babe, you can rust me!” On a side note regarding this subject, I like to inform the automotive gearheads that paint is overrated, just to catch them off guard.

For grins, I spent several days after the show looking for opportunities to use “for what it’s worth” offensively, saying it in my head and not verbally. A weight-challenged woman in a grocery store, looking as if she’d been poured into stretch pants, was my first victim.

“For what it’s worth, ma’am, that outfit reminds me of Spam in a can!”

A fellow was walking around Walmart in a sleeveless shirt with both arms not at his sides, something Arnold Schwarzenegger would have to do. Not knowing the guy’s real name, I automatically gave him one for my project.

“For what it’s worth, Russell, a muscle shirt’s designed for guys actually having muscles!”

A college student at Rotary Park was evidently trying to bring back a hairstyle that’s been gone for at least 45 years.

“For what it’s worth, dude, the mullet died in ‘82.”

One day later, a nice-looking girl, another college student, was attempting to walk with an inebriated fellow who appeared to be a boneless chicken when it came to balance.

“For what it’s worth, miss, this one you should ditch!”

My last subject was around the same age as me. He rolled up next to us at a stoplight in a newer Chevy truck with California plates. The guy had been driving like a maniac, jumping in and out of lanes on 95, almost causing a wreck.

Looking at him, the man mouthed some gibberish that I couldn’t understand. I can still see those stained, unsightly teeth. That Friday afternoon, I finally let go, verbally, of my thoughts.

“For what it’s worth, boss, did you forget to floss?”

Hearing my comment, he stopped mouthing off, quickly put his window back up, and sped away. My “for what it’s worth” must’ve stung him as much, as that fellow saying I needed to clearcoat my rust.

Elderly man smiling inside vintage blue truck wearing plaid shirt and cap

GREASY SPOON DINER

“Having heard people call it Greasy Spoon, the first time I went to Fork & Spoon as a teenager, I looked closely at my silverware, expecting to find just that.”

I have fond memories of four restaurants from my time living in Anchorage, Alaska. Three of them are still in operation, while one is no longer. That fourth, I dined there explicitly for one reason. I’ll get to that at the end of this spiel.

The White Spot Café has been a beloved Anchorage institution for decades, known for its welcoming atmosphere and famous halibut sandwich. Established in the 1950s by Lenora Weaver, the café quickly became a local favorite, serving classic diner fare and providing a gathering place for residents and visitors alike.

Its central location in downtown Anchorage made it a convenient spot for city workers, tourists, and families looking for a hearty meal. The name is quite unusual, but that doesn’t seem to bother those looking for good food.

Over the years, the White Spot Café has maintained its vintage charm, even as the surrounding city has grown and changed. The café’s history is intertwined with Anchorage’s own development, reflecting the community’s resilience and spirit. Generations of Alaskans have fond memories of meals shared at the White Spot, making it a landmark that continues to play an important role in the city’s cultural landscape.

Another beloved Anchorage eatery is the Arctic Roadrunner, which has carved out its own place in the city’s history. Founded in the late 1960s by Richard “Dick” Sanchis, Arctic Roadrunner quickly became famous for its classic burgers and a casual, friendly atmosphere.

Located along the banks of Campbell Creek, this burger joint has served generations of Alaskans, offering a nostalgic dining experience with its retro décor and handwritten menu boards.

Much like the White Spot Café, Arctic Roadrunner has remained a community favorite by staying true to its roots. Locals and visitors alike are drawn to its simple, hearty food and the tradition of signing their names on the walls via photographs.

The restaurant’s longevity and character have made it a landmark in Anchorage, celebrated for its role in bringing people together over great food and genuine hospitality. The “Lord Baranof” burger was my favorite. There’s a street in Anchorage by that same name.

Leroy’s Pancake House holds a special place in Anchorage’s culinary history. Established in the early 1970s by Leroy Plaster, Leroy’s quickly became renowned for its hearty breakfasts and warm, welcoming service.

The restaurant was a favorite among locals, especially for its signature pancakes and traditional American breakfast fare. Its convenient location and relaxed atmosphere made it a popular spot for families, travelers, and city workers looking to start their day with a satisfying meal.

My favorite breakfast item was “Pigs in a Blanket.” This consisted of sausage links rolled up into pancakes. I made sure to order it in a quiet voice if any APD officers were sitting at a nearby table, which did happen on one occasion.

Leroy’s Pancake House has thrived for decades, serving generations of Anchorage residents and visitors. Many fondly recall the bustling mornings, friendly staff, and comforting food that defined Leroy’s experience, marking it as a cherished chapter in Anchorage’s restaurant history. Radio celebrity Herb Shandlin could often be found there at all hours.

Fork & Spoon café, affectionately known to many locals as the Greasy Spoon, held a unique place in Anchorage’s dining scene. Established in the mid-20th century by Richard “Dick” Dickens, this humble eatery was housed in a timeworn building at the corner of Tudor Road and the Old Seward Highway.

The café became a favorite haunt for early risers, late-night crowds, truckers, and anyone seeking hearty, no-frills comfort food. Its atmosphere was unpretentious and welcoming, with a menu that featured classic American diner staples served with generous portions and a side of local character.

Throughout its years of operation, Fork & Spoon fostered a loyal following among Anchorage residents and travelers alike. It was known for its friendly staff and the sense of camaraderie among regulars, many of whom considered the café a second home.

Despite its popularity and cherished place in the community, Fork & Spoon eventually closed its doors, making way for a car dealership that now occupies the site. The memories of shared meals, laughter, and Anchorage spirit live on in those who once gathered there.

Having heard people call it Greasy Spoon, the first time I went to Fork & Spoon as a teenager, I looked closely at my silverware, expecting to find just that. My spoon was just as clean as those at home. It wasn’t until later that I discovered what the term “greasy spoon” actually means.

The term “greasy spoon” is a colloquial expression used to describe a small, inexpensive diner or café known for serving simple, hearty meals—often classic American comfort food—sometimes with a reputation for less-than-pristine surroundings or oily cuisine.

Despite the name, greasy spoon diners are celebrated for their unpretentious atmosphere, affordable prices, and welcoming staff, making them beloved local gathering spots for everyday people.

The phrase doesn’t literally refer to greasy utensils but rather evokes the image of a place where the food is filling, the service is friendly, and the ambiance is casual and genuine. Fork and Spoon in Anchorage was just that, a great place to eat for those on a budget like me.

SLOW & STEADY

“Bicycling is something I was good at, and I still ride, but I learned early on that being the fastest doesn’t always pay dividends in the end.”

Turtle crossing finish line with red ribbon and small trophy — Tortoise and the Hare

I’ve never been the fastest at anything other than perhaps eating and reading. Mom was constantly telling me to slow down at meals and chew my food. My wife offered up a serious warning with her lecture. “You’ll choke someday. That’s how Janis Joplin died!” I believe she meant Mama Cass Elliot, but I wasn’t going to correct her.

As for my reading, no one has ever complained. I’ve been a fast reader since the earliest days, with SRA (Science Research Associates) labs in elementary school, fine-tuning my ability. No classmate was quicker, and even with weakening eyes, I’m still a whiz. No brag, just fact!

The phrase “slow and steady” comes from the classic fable of the rabbit and the hare. In this story, the hare is fast and confident, but he becomes overconfident and takes a nap during the race.

The turtle, moving slowly but steadily, never stops and eventually wins the race. The lesson is that consistent effort and patience often lead to success, even if progress seems slow at times.

Other examples include a student who spends little time studying every day instead of cramming at the last minute, who is likely to perform better on exams. Similarly, someone saving a small amount of money each month will eventually build up substantial savings, demonstrating that perseverance often outweighs speed.

Bicycling is something I was good at, and I still ride, but I learned early on that being the fastest doesn’t always pay off. My knees and hips can still function well without needing replacements; this is partly because I didn’t push my torso beyond its limits. I give the bulk of the credit here to Jesus Christ for helping keep me in good health.

Now that I’m an older homosapien male, I have nothing to prove, other than I can still move forward without the assistance of an electric motor. Hopefully, that day never arrives. If it does, I’ll want 36 volts. Horsepower is still king, even on senior-citizen mobility scooters.

Driving around town, I notice lots of potential hares tailgating and trying to push me up the road. If the speed limit says 35, that’s where you’ll find my truck speedometer pegged. Being retired, I’m in no hurry to get anywhere, as those days are long gone.

Walking is the same. No longer do I scurry about a grocery store in a tizzy, burning up calories. Younger folks behind me will just have to safely pass when the opportunity arises. “ Walk and smell the roses” is my motto, although around Havasu it’s more like inhaling mesquite and paloverde pollen while popping Allegra tablets.

Joleen says that I oftentimes don’t walk a straight line in stores or while hiking numerous trails in Rotary Park. I’ve noticed that myself, blaming it on my shoes or deteriorating asphalt, neither of which is the problem.

It appears that my slow and steady gait is turning to slow and unsteady, a problem that many seniors have. Despite this, if I keep each foot moving forward, all is good. Slow and unsteady still beats not moving at all.

I’ll end this with a bit of humorous wisdom that a coworker gave me years ago. I was around 30 at the time, while Martin Allen was in his 70s. Martin grew up in Arizona, where he worked in the copper mines of Bisbee before moving to Alaska. Some of his words have been changed to make it acceptable to all readers, although some might still be offended.

“Two bulls were standing on a hill looking down upon a group of heifers. The youngest bull, full of testosterone, snorted and boldly proclaimed, “I’m gonna run down there and make love to one of them bovines.”

The older bull, chewing on a blade of grass, shook his head in disagreement before replying. “Not me, I’ll walk down there and make love to them all!”

I suppose only a few got the hidden message. As a young man, it took a moment to fully understand what Martin was trying to say. After it sunk in, with me being a rookie mechanic, his lesson was on the same level as Albert Einstein, at least to my brain it was.

I’ve never forgotten Martin Allen, often putting his wisdom to good use in other areas of life. Before closing, I took a popular John Deere advertisement regarding their lawnmowers and twisted it to fit this story.

“It’s not how slow you mow – it’s how well you mow slow!”

Two large bulls on a rocky hill with a herd of cattle grazing below on grass — Slow and steady has powerful meaning

FORT MCCLELLAN, ALABAMA – 1942

Fort McClellan’s origins trace back to 1917, when it was established as Camp McClellan in response to the United States’ entry into World War I. The camp was named in honor of Major General George B. McClellan, a prominent Union Army leader during the American Civil War.

Initially, it served as a training ground for National Guard units, rapidly growing to accommodate the influx of soldiers preparing for overseas service.

Fort McClellan is located near the city of Anniston in northeastern Alabama, United States. During World War II, Fort McClellan served as a major training center for the United States Army. It was primarily used for the training of infantry and military police units, as well as hosting specialized schools such as the Chemical Warfare Service.

The fort played a significant role in preparing troops for deployment overseas and contributed to the overall war effort by supporting the rapid expansion and mobilization of U.S. forces.

On December 7, 1942, Pfc. James T. Moran sent a picture postcard purchased from the Past Exchange at Fort McClellan to a former teacher, Mr. Charles Bicknell at 39 Elliott Street in Meriden, Connecticut. This was exactly one year after Pearl Harbor was bombed. On front of the postcard is a photo of soldiers undergoing weapons training.

The card simply reads:

“Hello Charlie,

Things are different to say the least. I’m here with a Boston crowd – 6 week course – after that on to another camp – so they tell us.

Jim”

Private James Moran successfully made it through the war, going on to work for AT&T as a mechanic before retiring in Port Charlotte, Florida. Born on February 20, 1923, he passed away at the age of 80 on December 16, 2003.

Charles Roscoe Bicknell was born April 3, 1901. He worked as an instructor at a trade school for many years before retiring and moving to Florida. He died there on October 24, 1991, at the age of 90.

Unlike many of the WWII cards I’ve come across, this one had a relatively happy ending for both the sender and card recipient.

TOMBSTONE CHIT CHAT

“I was interested in finding the first person buried there and a bit of history about that individual.”

Opened in the early 1970s, Lake Havasu Memorial Gardens in Lake Havasu City, Arizona, serves as a final resting place for the remains and cremains of many residents and visitors. According to Findagrave.com, the cemetery is home to 4,945 gravesites, along with a couple of mausoleums and several columbaria.

The gardens were created to provide a peaceful and dignified environment for families to honor and remember loved ones. Over the years, the site has evolved to include landscaped grounds, memorial markers, and spaces dedicated to reflection and remembrance.

As Lake Havasu City grew, the memorial gardens became an integral part of the community, hosting ceremonies and offering support to those in mourning. Its history reflects the city’s commitment to preserving memories and honoring lives within a tranquil desert setting.

I was interested in finding the first person buried there and a bit of history about that individual. It appears that Karl Joseph Baunach is number one. Karl, born in Germany on March 11, 1898, married Theresia Schmitz in 1948.

The couple had two children, Erika and Eric. Their father died in Lake Havasu City on April 13, 1970. Theresia died in 1995, some 25 years after him. She is buried in Lake Havasu Memorial Gardens, along with their son.

Sgt. Eric Baunach served with the US Army in Vietnam, later becoming an archaeologist in Arizona and Oregon and owning his own construction company. His sister Erika Baunach-Hinkel died in 2025. She’s buried in Oregon.

I tried to find out what brought the Baunachs to Lake Havasu City, with a 1956 ship manifest showing him as a shoemaker. That’s the year this family came to America, ultimately landing at Ellis Island. It seems unlikely that a shoemaker would be needed in our fledgling town at such an early period.

Karl was 72 when he passed away, so working in construction also seems unlikely, though some would argue otherwise. My guess is that he was one of the early realtors. If someone knows for sure, they can email me.

Undoubtedly, there’s so much more to be told about Karl Baunach, yet I was only privy to information available through archived newspaper articles, Ancestry.com, and Findagrave.com. Karl’s grandchildren might know some of the history, but the truth is, most young people have little interest in such.

Without question, there are other interesting people buried in Lake Havasu Gardens, and as time allows, I’ll research and release more findings. A graveyard to me is like an open book.

What unique and nonstop stories these tombstones would tell if only they could talk. It’s up to writers like me to create the historical chit chat for them.